


the world was wide enough

by thankyouforexisting



Category: Countdown to Countdown (Webcomic)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Character Study, First Kiss, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Trauma, tw: abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 23:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12804942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankyouforexisting/pseuds/thankyouforexisting
Summary: Iris Black is dead.Long live Iris Black.//For years, the lab was all he had. The rare gentle touches were his cravings. The instances in which he could get drunk and forget he was locked in, a lab rat in a cage. Coming and feeling satisfied, for once. Stray cats wandering near his only window, peeking their nose in and meowing loudly. Those placid treats, in his monotone gray - he misses them.Lillium’s hand curls around his, strong but with a loose enough grip that he could shake it off if he so wished.Instead, he grips tighter.He might not be able to reach out, but now, Lillium can do it for him.Iris isn’t letting go.





	the world was wide enough

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this as a character study for Iris Black, from countdown to countdown.  
> TW for child abuse, alcohol addiction, mentions of dubcon, graphic violence, death.  
> title from The World Was Wide Enough from the musical "Hamilton"

_I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory_   
_Is this where it gets me, on my feet, sev’ral feet ahead of me?_   
_I see it coming, do I run or fire my gun or let it be?_ _  
_ There is no beat, no melody

 _-_ The World Was Wide Enough, Hamilton

  
  


There is an old box that sits on top of Mom’s kitchen shelf.

 

The shelf itself has become dusty with disuse, made up of rotting wood that smells more of ages past than trendy vintage furniture, chipped at its aged corners. One time, Iris put one of the kitchen chairs under him, balanced his weight on the sleek metal, and gripped around, his curiosity getting the better of him. He shut his eyes while he searched, letting the feel of the slightly damp material guide him, listening to its tales. In the end, he simply managed to procure a splinter inside his index finger, and a loud reprimand from Mom the moment he was caught.

 

“You have to be careful, Iris,” she insisted. Her hands - skin much darker than his, rougher, and yet gentle - wrapped around his wrists. She rubbed at the inside of his palm with her thumbs, soothing. “Age makes things dangerous. You never know if they’re safe.”

 

 _You never know if_ you _re safe_.

 

Iris would have protested, would have yelled and kicked and demanded he was free to roam around the house as he pleased. But Mom’s eyes were hard steel. So he nodded - the meekest expression he could pull off believably. And yet, as he walked away, his gaze settled on the one thing peeking out of the old leather box on top of the shelf - their loyal and inanimate sentinel.

 

A thin strip of paper, curled up and weathered. Barely visible letters were written on it, and Iris could already read, at 5 (Mom was proud of him; shown through shining smiles and the occasional ruffle of his unruly curls).

 

 _Groundhog Day_.

 

…

 

Lillium does not just love dogs.

 

He adores them. With a _passion_.

 

The guy has an uncountable number of them, ranging from so tiny that they fit on his palm (puppies that haven’t even opened their eyes properly yet), to so big that they’re taller than Iris. All of the dogs gather around him as if he was their pack leader, lick at his hand and rub their head against his knee. Lillium knows what each of their favorite foods are, which places they love to sniff around, what toys they like best. The rest of the camp likes them, of course, but Lillium flutters near his dogs protectively, splashes them with affection. Every single morning, at the time the sun rises and starts to wander inside their cabin, Lillium wakes up and proceeds to feed and brush each of the animals, devoted.

 

“Your thing with dogs isn’t like, normal,” Iris complains one day, settling his elbows on top of their shared mattress (shared only because there’s a shortage of them, not for any other reason, he reminds the other boy with a mean glare). The springs squeak under him, whine and protest his weight. “You have what? 20?”

 

“Oh, _shush_ .” Lillium smiles. He’s lying down, a book in his hands. Probably one of those deliriously romantic novels that he covets and refuses to be ashamed about. When Iris talks to him, though, he closes it, silent, and turns towards him. Pushes his elbow down, rests his head on his hand, his body angled at Iris. “They’re all so good! How can I _not_ adore them?”

 

Iris wrinkles his nose. “Well. I’m not letting them on our bed.” Lips pursed, he narrows his eyes at Lillium. “I have a right not to smell wet dog when I’m trying to sleep.”

 

Lillium’s eyes shine. An amber twilight of mischief (despite its corniness, Iris can’t find any other way to describe them).

 

It’s so hard not to look at him. Iris is drawn to Lillium, as if by an invisible cord tying them together and pulling them tight. He wants to thread his fingers through neon colored pink hair, wants to put his hands on his strong arms, squeeze. Iris feels like Lillium could crush him if he so wished to, but continues choosing to keep him there. To save him.

 

“I’m sorry, darling,” Lillium smiles. His teeth are unfairly white, for an apocalyptic world. “I’ll make sure the dogs don’t go on _our_ bed.”

 

Iris’s face heats, realizing what he said. But it’s too late to take it back. Too late to pretend he didn’t mean it.

 

So he just buries his head in his hands, mumbling out, “Thanks.”

  


...

  
  


People are afraid of death.

 

It’s a fair statement to make, Iris thinks. Despite a few notable exceptions, perhaps, most human beings alive fear the end of their existence. No matter what religious background, no matter what spiritual beliefs. The end of what is clearly known becomes unsettling, shrouds itself in mystery and hides so diligently as one attempts to forget it is even coming.

 

Mom didn’t like to speak about it. Turned the radio down as death counts started to come in, covered Iris’s ears, nails scratching lightly. She’d bring out the small glass bottles in the cabinet, and take a drink. And another. And another. Until they were finished, until no more names came through.

 

People are afraid of death, but they do not face it until it comes. Before, there were closed caskets. Ceremonies with melancholic music. The taste of stale pastries on a table no one wants to approach. Graves left unvisited. Plastic flowers to last the test of time loved ones are too afraid to even attempt to take.

 

After the outbreak - after the flowers, after the screams, after the torture, after the chaos, after the rivers of blood watering the city - people are afraid of death, and what comes after.

 

…

 

Iris has never had tea before.

  


“Y-you don’t like it,” Begonia stutters, eyes wide, when she sees him stare at it quizzically. She’s halfway through standing up, her skirts flowing around her, by the time that Iris can correct her.

 

“No, no it’s not that,” he reassures the girl. Begonia flushes, the tinge of color in her dark cheeks making her glow. She pushes a lock of curls behind her ear, looking at him from the corner of her eye. “I’ve just...never had it before.”

 

“You’ve never had tea?” Begonia sounds horrified. “But...it’s _tea_ !” Her nose scrunches up, as if contemplating the fact is too terrible for words, an unspeakable offense. Iris has the small urge to giggle. “Maybe you mean you’ve never had _green_ tea before.”

 

Begonia’s feet are bare. Her toenails have been painted a strong, dazzling shade of purple, with little white stars clumsily drawn on them. Iris contemplates, curious, if Lillium did it.

 

“Nope.” Iris shrugs. “We only had water back at - where I was.”

 

And alcohol, in Dr. Madison’s secret stash. But he wasn’t technically supposed to have access to that.

 

Doesn’t want to admit to Begonia he did something wrong.

 

She cocks her head slowly. “No...tea,” her tone is neutral, voice drawing out the words. Her features sharpen, filed with determination. It’s a good look on Begonia; a change from the squirming nervousness and uncertainty that seems to chase the girl. “Well. I’ll just have to teach you all different kinds myself, then.” She smiles, eyes crinkled. “If- If you want, of course.”

 

Iris hasn’t tasted the tea yet. It’s too hot, still steaming and pushing warm air right under his chin. But he knows, from the barely-contained glee in Begonia, from the way his heart is beating fast, that it will be delicious.

 

“Can’t wait.”

  


...

  
  


“Do you...do you think you’ll find it?” Iris asks, voice trembling.

 

He’s sweating. It took him an entire week to work up the nerve to actually ask, to not just stay silent and do as he’s told. The scientist - today it’s the woman with the short brown hair, thankfully - blinks at him, pausing in her mechanical gestures. The leather straps tying Iris to the chair fall limply, granting him a few more seconds of freedom.

 

Iris relishes them. Counts down the time he has left of it. _30_.

 

“Find...what?” the scientist asks. She cocks her head fondly.

 

She’s wearing lipstick. It’s pink.

 

“...A cure,” Iris whispers, biting his lower lip. He draws blood - he’s been chewing on it nonstop for days now, and his lips are chapped constantly. The metallic taste drips into his mouth. “That’s...that’s what I’m - That’s what we’re here for, right?” He stares at the ground. “A cure.”

 

Iris doesn’t look up, but he sees the woman’s grip tightening on the chair, her knuckles dyed white. “Well, Iris. I’m confident we’ll get there. It does take time, though. Science is like that, I’m afraid.” A low chuckle. She puts her finger under his chin, lifts his head. Iris follows. She smiles. “We really appreciate your help, Iris. You’re helping so many people.”

 

“Right.” Iris swallows. “I’m glad.”

 

The scientist straps him down.

 

_0._

 

…

 

People are afraid of death.

 

When Iris feels the blade get closer to his throat, he screams. He flails so wildly that he _must_ hit the man holding him, that he _must_ be able to get away. He must, he must _please -_

 

Iris hears the bulky man cough, but he never wavers. Iris is crying, breaking his nails against a rough, dirty jacket (he’s going to get his fingers infected, but _who cares, who cares_ ), as he desperately struggles to get free. His legs kick, scrawny and skinny and not enough to do any damage.

 

“ _Please_ -!” he begs, with the last of the air remaining in his lungs.

 

And then the knife slashes, and Iris gurgles.

 

He has about twenty seconds before a complete loss of conscious. 20 seconds of his body spasming and shaking with terror, of nerves firing up in a too-late, too-little alarm. Iris can _feel_ the blood leaving his body, feels his dizziness turn into inescapable disorientation. Everything is _numb_ , and yet it _hurts_. His hands, in a last feeble attempt, try to scratch at his throat, as if they could hold it in. As if it’s stop the blood spilling on the floor in a cascade of crimson.

 

Lillium comes in looking for him almost immediately, but it’s useless.

 

Iris bleeds out and dies six minutes later, by exsanguination of his carotid artery.

 

0,000000001 seconds after that, he comes to in a stinky toilet.

 

…

 

“Do you...miss them?” Lillium murmurs.

 

Iris eyes open, just a slit, to see the start of sunlight peeking through their makeshift window. The sheet falls on Lillium’s hips, leaves his belly exposed. Iris’s hand _aches_ to reach out.

 

He keeps it to himself.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“The...twins,” Lillium clears his throat. “And the other people back at that place. You lived with them, right? It must hurt that they’re gone.”

 

_Hands on his thighs, sliding up and making him shiver. Whispers near his ears, names of other people, other boys, other beds. Rough, hard touches that were never for pleasure, but need. Children yelling at him. A girl with pigtails spreading the rumour that Iris was actually crazy, never hung out with them because it was forbidden. Sobbing in a cold metal chair, gripping the legs so tight his skin broke. Doctors writing down every second of his breakdown. Fire._

 

“Yes,” Iris whispers, a dark confession. “Yes, I miss them.”

 

For years, the lab was all he had. The rare gentle touches were his cravings. The instances in which he could get drunk and forget he was locked in, a lab rat in a cage. Coming and feeling satisfied, for once. Stray cats wandering near his only window, peeking their nose in and meowing loudly. Those placid treats, in his monotone gray - he misses them.

 

Lillium’s hand curls around his, strong but with a loose enough grip that he could shake it off if he so wished.

 

Instead, he grips tighter.

 

He might not be able to reach out, but now, Lillium can do it for him.

 

Iris isn’t letting go.

  
  


...

  
  


Lillium’s neck a bloody mess on the floor. Voices arguing in a blur that Iris can’t quite make out. The stench of unwashed dog and smoke. Memories that filter through, without order or sense at all, a whirlwind of timeless nonsense.

 

 _They’re all so good? How can I_ not _love them?_

 

Iris doesn’t fight, this time.

 

The bullet enters through his left eye, pierces his skill, and destroys his brain in a matter of seconds.

  


…

  


“What are you doing?” Alma asks.

 

Iris blinks. He hadn’t seen the woman there, before, while he was starting to wash the laundry (he’s on rotation this week). Alma’s one of the unofficial leaders of the Oregon settlement, one of the people who keep them all together. Lillium looks at her with open admiration, has little nicknames for her that make the middle aged woman sigh.

 

Iris mostly stays out of her way. The closest they’ve been to interacting was his first time coming into the camp, when she approved of his stay with them. After that, he’s only seen her inside the classroom with the few camp children (“They’re a dying breed,” Iris heard a man snicker once), teaching them lyrical Spanish.

 

“I’m...I’m doing laundry,” he mumbles, lashes falling on his cheeks.

 

“No, you’re not.” Alma’s hands are on her hips. At seeing Iris’s disconcerted stare, she laughs, loud and yet free of malice. “Have you never done this before, boy?”

 

Iris flushes. “...No.”

 

 _Not that he can remember, anyway_.

 

His hands are worn and calloused, but always, always, from painting. There wasn’t much else he could do in a glass cage.

 

Alma’s laughter quietens. Slowly, she makes her way down to the taps, where there’s the regulated water supply and wooden planks (Iris isn’t really sure what those are for). Her strides are long and sure, filled with confidence. She puts her hand out, palm spread.

 

“Let’s teach you, then.”

 

By the time they’re halfway done - dresses, t shirts, underwear, all of it strung up on the thin clothes line, dripping down in a way that’s almost joyful - the air tastes of bar soap, Iris’s hands are slippery, and he’s smiling, a bubble moustache painted on his face. Alma keeps shaking her head in disapproval.

 

But she’s grinning, too.

  


…

  
  


The third time, he drowns.

 

He just argued with Begonia, argued about Lillium. Yelled at her, til his throat was raw and his eyes spiked with tears he was too proud to shed. Threw his arms in the air and accused her of charges he knows aren’t true, could never be true. There was venom in his words, poison in his voice. He watched her tremble and turn her head, didn’t chase her as she floated away. A forlorn storm cloud.

 

Iris leaves Begonia’s save point raging, with red cheeks and pent up fury inside of him. He’s tired of riddles. Tired of Lillium’s hinting. Tired of being kept in the dark, as if he were a child, as if he traded the laboratory for another prison. He will not be pushed around, never again. Iris won’t be a pet, won’t be their toy, won’t be - won’t be _owned_.

 

He almost makes it to the camp.

 

The monster appears when he least expects it. It materializes out of thin air to find him, it seems. One second, Iris is grumbling under his breath, hands curled up into fists, nails digging into his skin. The next, he hears heavy breathing, messy footsteps, and it’s there.

 

Iris _runs_.

 

(Doesn’t he always?)

 

Iris runs and runs and _runs_ . It’s behind him, and he left his satchel back in Begonia’s place, where everything he could use was. He doesn’t even have a _pen_ , to draw a clumsy knife and defend himself. There’s just forest ground, sharp turns and no sign of anyone. Iris has died before (he remembers, he remembers) but every time his entire body rebels against it, fights viciously. His blood runs hot and fast, his muscles tense.

 

The only way to run into a safe place is to return to camp, but Iris refuses to lead this thing into the settlement. Today’s a hunting day, and only the kids are back there. The kids, barely above ten years old, who ask him for help panting, who make him cards for the birthday Lillium appointed as his.

 

Iris refuses to condemn them.

 

In the end, it’s a simple mistake. His feet trip over a rock. Chin gets hit upside down by a poorly placed rock. Unconscious, he rolls down to the river, and dies.

 

(The next time, he doesn’t argue with Begonia. Doesn’t yell, doesn’t complain, doesn’t blow up.)

  


…

 

Their first kiss is nothing like Iris imagined.

 

He has, of course, imagined it. It would be ridiculous to deny it, to imply that he’s never fantasized about touching Lillium, about being touched by him. The boy is gorgeous if nothing else, and it doesn’t stop there, to his misfortune. Lillium becomes a trailblazer, Lillium grins as he faces impossible odds. Lillium wears bandages like a badge of honor. Lillium looks at Iris, and seems physically unable to look away.

 

Iris imagined…

 

Fire. Groping hands. A follow-up on the innuendos, the winks, the flirty remarks that Lillium can’t seem to ever miss out on. Maybe the taste of his annoying cigarettes, wrinkling his nose and complaining obnoxiously. His usual cocky demeanor, translated into demanding touches. Imagined a first kiss that turned into their first time.

 

Instead, Lillium is awed.

 

He acts as if kissing Iris is something unbelievable, a gift granted from a god that he has been asking for since he can remember. Lillium’s fingers tickle against Iris’s cheeks, the strands of bandages brushing his skin.

 

“You’re beautiful,” the boy whispers. His voice catches between the words, drowns and takes Iris’s heart with it.

 

“L-Look who’s talking, pretty boy,” Iris mumbles. He knocks their foreheads together, shivers at the warmth of another person. Somehow, his hands find themselves curling around Lillium’s waist, tying them together. Tight. As tight as possible.

 

Lillium’s fingers lift Iris’s chin, a wordless plea.

 

“...May I?” he breathes.

 

His heart is beating its way out of Iris’s chest, so fast that it terrifies him. This holds weight. There is a risk.

 

_Will he take it?_

 

“Yes,” Iris answers.

 

Before him, Lillium’s expression blooms into euphoria, and he gently pushes their mouths together. They kiss, like lovelorn teenagers, for so long that they seem to forget there is anything else worth pursuing. Sit on the makeshift, terrible couch, lying together, their legs tangled. Nothing past kissing happens, but Iris is riding a high that feels so much more pleasurable than orgasm.

 

“Lillium,” he says, voice small.

 

It isn’t a question.

 

“Me too.” Lillium confirms, and kisses the back of his palm.

  
  


…

  


People are afraid of death.

 

They fear it, because it is unknown. Dark. Uncertain. Death, as far as they know, isn’t a prelude, but a finishing stroke, the last bar before the _finale_. It feels, almost, like an unset deadline. Racing to tick off all bullet points before time inevitably runs out.

 

Iris Black has died twenty times.

 

He’s learning, for the very first time, to not be afraid. Learning, once and for all, not to fear _living_.

 

Learning that he is not, and will never be, alone.

 

_Fin_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! <3  
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://i-read-good-books.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/gomadelpelorota)


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